LEARNING TO SEE

A person history of photography (1947-2012) By Tom Dinning

This PDF is made available by Tom Dinning on the condition that it is used freely to teach others how to see.

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Tom Dinning can be contacted at tomdinning@bigpond.com. Other material by the author can be viewed at http://tdinning.blogspot.com.au/

I have my parents to thank and myself to blame for what I am. Tom Dinning 2012

PART ONE PART ONE

On any Sunday I would find myself at my father's side, standing before a masterpiece in some gallery. There was a ritual to follow. Silence at first. I watched him from knee height, absorbed in his fascination for the image in the frame. A Constable, Manet or Titian, it mattered not. The stance was the same. Hands by his side, head tilted slightly upwards, a barely distinguishable smile that I had learnt to recognise and only a son could see. A tall. proud man, well dressed, creased and cuffed trousers, shiny brown shoes, a soft open necked shirt, hair well groomed and glimmering in the dimmed light of the gallery.

I would explain. Trees, people, a woman and a child, a man lighting a fire, leaves on the ground. Tell me what they are doing. Resting. Preparing lunch. Then a bit more silence. Now I want you to be the artist. I can't paint. You can see. See what time of day it is. See how close the woman is and how far away the man is. See the space between the trees, the colour of the leaves on the After the silence came the questions. What do you see? ground, the clothes they wear, the look on the faces. Here. Hold up your hand. Point to the child. Paint the eyes. I did as he suggested. Carefully I outlined the eye, then the other. I could see the sparkle. It blinked at me. There was always so much more to see.

Now smell the smoke from the fire. It's gum smoke and it bites at the back of your throat and makes your eyes water. Smell the dust from the ground and the mould from the leaves. Smell the richness of the air with the odours of the Bush. Can you feel the leaves under your feet? The heat of the morning falling to the ground. No breeze. The weight of the child on the mother's lap. It's you. Now feel the weight of life on the father's shoulders. I never understood that bit for a long time. What's for breakfast? Can you taste it? Some milk, perhaps, for the baby. Porridge on the fire, honey from a hive. Tea. WeetBix and cold milk. He laughed quietly and nudged me affectionately. Yes. WeetBix. Now listen. Carefully. A whip bird calling. Something moves in the trees. The clatter of sticks as the man builds the fire, crackling into life. Can you hear their heart beat. I could hear mine. Silence. I could hear my father breathing. Other patrons pass by but don't stop. A woman stares at us as if we are lost. We are, in a wilderness of wonder. Its like a window, Dad. Its the artists window. He wants you to see what he sees. Every time you look through his window you will see something new, a little more of the artist and what his world looks like to him. That's a very special thing he does for you. I wish I could paint.

Use your camera instead. Show people your world through your window. I can hear him say it now. Will they see what I see? You'll have to show them how.

PART TWO

My memories of growing up are always accompanied by the heat of a Sydney summer; stifling and submissive, covered with suburban blue sky tainted with a tincture of dust and an odour of freshly mowed grass and rubbish bins left in the street too long. My view of this world of cobbled streets and clattering carts was framed by a small, lace curtained, sash window above my bed. What entered through this rectangular aperture each day was a passing parade of life as I knew it. Friends, family and neighbours came and went through the squeaky gate, my sisters played hopscotch and chattered with boys along the verge, Snowy barked at the postman, Bob the Bookie made his regular visits to Dot and Wally's place across the road, providing them with the latest odds for Rose Hill races. The camphor laurel tree shed it's leaves without ever becoming bare. The light through the rusty fly screen woke me in the morning and the street lights kept me awake at night. The sounds and sights of my childhood emanated from this orifice like a mysterious story told by The Oracle. Passing my days at that window was endless and effortless.

What are you looking at? my Old Man would ask. Nothing really. Are you going out to play? No. I'll just sit here and ........ watch. My Old Man would leave me to my watching.

I watched from my grandstand pretty much through my childhood and into my teens. Nothing changed, or so it seemed. Then an internal amendment was made to my homeland security. Mayhem reigned in our household. A baby arrived. I was fully aware, by the age of fifteen, how that happens and where they come from.

Nevertheless, I was somewhat shocked and concerned that my parents still had it in them to do such a thing. After all, they were my parents. Even now I find the whole thing a bit distasteful.

Understanding that space was at a premium at Number 17 New York Street, a complete reshuffle of personal space was inevitable. My old man placed his gnarled hand on my shoulder and looked me squarely in the eyes with that steel gray look that said volumes. His was the Rule of Law. The baby will need the spot by the window. I gave in reluctantly. After all, the Big Brother must do what he can to accommodate the cute and cuddly new sister. I think my life also depended on it.

I, my bed and my meager belongings were relegated to the back room while L'il Sister's bassinet was wheeled into place, fitting perfectly below the well worn sill. A cool breeze ruffled the curtains as if to greet her to my world. She would be happy here, I thought. I kind of liked the idea that I could share my vision with someone. Each day I would sit with her and explain to her what she might see if she could reach. As she grew and begun pulling herself to the window we would share our excitement as the new day passed us by. Her view seemed limited somewhat to only those things she could realise with her immediate attention. When the old man from Number 9 passed by, she had no concept of his existence beforehand or afterward. It was as though he only existed in the time it took to pass her view. When it rained the drops came from nowhere. When Dad came home at the end of his day he would call to her and she would look puzzlingly before bubbling with excitement at his magical appearance.

I would share with her my experiences as a child as well. My first sight of a car. The flowering of the frangipani. The day they tarred the road. Oh, how I remember the smell and the noise. She giggled at my expression. The night of the fire. I let her feel the fear and comforted her as if she had been there. I was back there again and she was with me, with the frame of our window shielding us.

Eventually she began to tell her own stories in her own bumbling way. I would stare out the window with her as she described the days events and be there in among the passing crowd. I began to see what she saw. She delighted in the understanding of object permanence. The window was now our common perception and we reveled in it. What are you two looking at? my Old Man would ask. Nothing much. Are you teaching her to see? I guess I am. After a long silence (my Old Man was filled with long silences) he would peer over my shoulder and stare through our window; the three of us like crows on a fence. How strange that must have seemed to passers-by.

How's the photography going? OK My Old Man always had the ability to add to a conversation, a question that left a void for me to fill. It was like reading a book with the last chapter missing and I would have to write it myself. Many years later, when my father was no longer around to ask me pointed questions, I came across a photographer by the name of Jane Bown. She said she photographed so that others could see what she saw. I think she must have known my Old Man. At least she must have looked through the same window. I still share that view through my window with my L'il Sister. I hope she sees what I see.

PART THREE

By the time I'd reached my late 30's I knew it all, at least I thought I did. I was secure in a good job, my photography was being well received and keeping me busy, I had a family, living in a comfortable cottage in the Australian Bush which I had built with my own bare hands (and a few of my friends' bare hands as well), and there was a future in sight, dim and clouded as it was. The euphoria that accompanied this apparent state of well being and contentment was also supplemented by a strange emptiness that filled my waking hours and a few of my sleeping ones as well. It was nothing I could put my finger on but it seemed I had a need to complete some unfinished business that was yet to be identified; maybe even commenced.

In an effort to resolve this inner struggle, I read. Anything from 'Zen and the Art of Motor Cycle Maintenance to the Bible, all of which were ploys at explaining someone

else's problems; certainly not mine. I didn't need a road trip or a God, I needed a simple answer. Two hundred pages of Buddhist ideology while standing on my head in some exotic yoga position wasn't giving it to me; just a head ache and a bad back. While all this deep and meaningful stuff was transpiring, I had not seen my Old Man for some time so I called him up, and on the pretence of building something from wood which I knew he would be quite happy to interfere with, I asked him to come and stay awhile. He turned up on the next train with his usual attire; dressed like he was going fishing and carrying only a small tartan bag from which the smell of week-old prawns emanated and the tip of a telescopic fishing rod protruded. It's an Ugly Stik. You could tie a knot in it. I assumed he meant the rod. He travelled light, my Old Man, but not fast.

After he had inspected my craftsmanship on the cottage and the new project, a large barn adjacent to the house which would be my studio and workshop, he settled into a shady spot on the verandah where, I imagined, he would stay until I took him to the train to return him home at some undetermined point in the future. He would muster enough energy during this dormancy bordering on hibernation to assist with the technical aspects on the building site - and fish. Occasionally he would break into conversation when he was reminded of something in his past. An old joke (which I had usually heard before), a place or person he recalled (who was more likely dead or missing), a song that came to mind (often something obscure he had heard on his favourite radio station: Triple J). Do you remember so-and-so? I wonder what he's doing now? Looking up from yesterday's paper. I invariably couldn't help him in his eager search for knowledge. He would return to his paper and scratch his balding head as if to find the answer in among the newsprint, possibly the obituaries.

Not many of the blokes are left. He would mumble. He might add as a recourse for his own persistence.

Towards the end of his stay, although I still wasn't aware of any use-by date at that stage, I borrowed a small row boat so we could venture out into the river early in the morning to catch the changing tide and, hopefully, a few flathead for which the Macley River was famous. As we rattled around with the trailer in the pre-dawn darkness, he took note that I had loaded my camera. You fishing with that thing? He asked. Thought I might catch a few shots while we fish. Not while I'm fishing, you won't. I knew the directness of my Old Man was harmless but none-the-less to be heeded if I was not to be reminded in the future (possibly for the rest of my life) of my forthcoming transgressions if I ignored him. The camera, much to my vexation, was returned to the house. As far as I recall it was the first time in twenty years I had been without it on such an occasion. It just didn't seem right. It felt as unsettling as failing to wear jocks with woolen trousers.

When we hit the river it was still dark. The silence was only broken by the smooth running of the tide, the splash of an occasional tailor feeding on bait fish and the rattling of the trailer chain. We slid into the water with a swoosh and paddled out into the blue-green darkness. The sky overhead appeared like black satin, brilliant with an infinity of stars. Something black passed a shadow across the void; a bat on its way home most likely. The air was warm and humid. A light flickered on the water, then vanished. Neither of us spoke. We found a place to anchor and strung our lines out into the tide to wait for it to turn. We waited in silence, still as a tombstone in a churchyard he sat, humped over slightly, arms pushed forward with the line in his hand, staring into the blackness. I could well have been alone. First light appeared. A yellow streak pushed its way into the sky above us like a finger pointing at our past and the arm to which it was attached would drag our future into the new day. I automatically reached for my camera before I remembered that it didn't have a place on this boat. Lost something? He said I wish I had my camera with me. He remained silent.

As the morning progressed and the light got stronger, the panorama of the river unfolded. This was by far one of the most picturesque places along the river, with its fleet of fishing vessels nestled into the shelter of a tight meander and the bridge dividing the sky from the water. In the background was the silhouette of Smokey Cape and Yarahapini and through the next thicket of mangroves the Pacific Ocean could be heard, roaring at the coastline before the yawning mouth of the Macley. I had photographed this place many times over the past years and it never failed to present a new, fresh and breathtaking vista. I itched for a viewfinder through which to look. The Old Man pulled his line from the water. As I recall, it was the first time he had dried his line since we anchored. I bet you wish you had your camera now. A wry smile sprung from his face and he winked slowly just to let me know who was in control. Now all you can do is look at it. He added.

It always takes me a while to understand the implications of his veracity for briefness. Reading between the lines was something I grew up with in any conversation with my Old Man. He was the most understated overstatement I knew. It was like having a ten metre sign at the front door that simply said 'Enter' (in small print). It was like a driving test without the manual, a dictionary without all the letters, a play with the middle act missing, a song without a chorus, a 'Dear John' letter without the 'goodbye'. Yet, in a single moment on that river, in the early hours of a November day, my Old Man provided me with all the answers I ever needed. Up to that point, I had viewed the world as if I was photographing it; recalling it later in a two dimensional flatness that I believed was everything. I had missed the point again. I had missed the real thing all along. My emptiness was beginning to fill. Once again I could begin to see why I was here on this river. Not to photograph it but to take it in, to enjoy it, to live it now, to sense it with everything I had. No distractions, no philosophies, no sales pitch for the customer, no display for the office wall. Just be here and take it all in. To share the experience as it happened.

And I did. We both did. Together we sat for an hour or so and watched. I don't remember everything I saw that day while sitting there in that small boat with my Old Man but I do know I was there, in every sense of the word, with every sense of my body, taking in what I could. Once again I was learning to see and it was so fulfilling it was almost painful. I don't remember if I had a tear in my eye but I should have. Had enough? He interjected, after what seemed to be an eternity in an instant. He dropped his line into the water once more. You didn't bait up. I enquired I'm fishing, not catching. As if one might interfere with the other. Er, Dad. Thanks for that. I don't talk when I fish. That controlled smirk returned briefly. He returned to his distant gaze at the scene before us. I don't believe I had ever seen the river in such a way before. And I'm still learning to see it.

PART FOUR

In the seemingly never ending and ridiculously brisk pace of life it's often difficult to take the advice of others, especially when banal comments like 'Take time to smell the roses' or 'Take some time out for yourself' seem the only offer as the solution to what you might see as a train wreck about to happen or a nuclear holocaust already in progress. In a world where a strong work ethic is God and financial security is the panacea for all ills, time to watch the lawn grow or the paint dry on the walls of your newly renovated suburban castle has been replaced by more mundane pass times such as watching the mortgage grow and the competition's name dry on the office door next to yours. After all, photographers have to eat. Some days it seems as though your very own heart rate can't keep pace with the blood that flows through your clogged arteries.

Yet, for some inane reason that is completely beyond me, I have chosen a profession that requires just that: a pause, momentary as it is, to reflect on the present and the past, to spend some time pondering the life of another human being, to give life to their Truth, their Beauty, to render their purpose purposeful. My life is filled with imagery, photographs taken by myself and others that require a presence, an understanding, a vision to produce and an insight to read. Each one of these images requires of me to 'smell the roses', to give the value they deserve.

But why? I don't have time for this! I'm a busy man. I have 'things' to do, 'places' to go, 'people' to meet, 'business' to deal with. When do I have time to look at my own images, let alone the myriad of visual stimulation thrown at me on a daily basis, all geared to influence my thinking. Buy this, sell that, the shock of the old and new, now for the news, a touch of beauty mingled with the torment of a nation, sickness and well-being all neatly parcelled in a box and plastered onto the screen or tabloid before me. Stop! Look at me! I'm the best. My photograph is the Truth. It holds the answers to all things. Emulate me and your dreams will come true. Envy me because what you see is unattainable. Dare to like what you see and I will stay with you forever. Hate me and I will have won.

This is a terrible dilemma for us all. We swim through the sea of sensory stimulation willingly, constantly tortured by the savagery of other people's skills. We are the baited fish dragged behind the boat, desperately dodging the snapping jaws of the frenzied school of sharks. Everyone wants their bit of flesh and all we want is to be dragged from the water screaming so we can drown in our own misgivings. Our dream changes from 'I can do that' to 'I wish I could do that'. We wait desperately for our Flickr graph to rise or the blog counter to tick over. When it doesn't we have failed, when it does, other's have failed. 'Nice colour' the comment reads. Is that it? Is that all they can see? 'What lens did you use?' Do they also chase the bait? Is it me they emulate, or it my photograph they want to copy? I really do need to smell the roses. But where do I find them?

Each day I spend a few moments with the photographers and their work; just staring. I dream of places I have never been. I meet people I do not know, I look at cherished objects and battles fought and lost, a shed in a field, a car crash, a well worn path, a new born baby and a grieving wife at a funeral. I also look at my own images and remind myself of why I do this thing called photography. Above my favourite chair is a framed photograph of some flowers. It holds no special place except to exist for its

own sake. It is the answer to all things, the god I seek, the tranquility I need, the space in the chaos, the dream, the 'rose' in my garden. As I look down at the book I am reading I am reminded of what its all about. Its not about the photograph or the winning or the ego that sometimes replaces my common sense, or lack of it. Its about the struggle, the lack of understanding, the inadequacy, the guilt, the search. That's what we do from the moment we eagerly take the first breathe to that fateful and inevitable time we gasp the last; photographers no less than others.

As T.S. Eliot pointed out to us all: "... Each venture Is the new beginning... ...what there is to conquer By strength and submission, has already been discovered Once or twice, or several times, by men whom one cannot hope To emulate - but there is no competition There is only the fight to recover what has been lost And found and lost again and again ...... For us there is only the trying. The rest is not our business" I still keep trying to see; for myself and for others.

PART FIVE

In the process of learning to see, ordinary days and ordinary events can often take on a significance that is, to say the least, surprising, if not profound, but certainly extraordinary in their connection. Today is such an ordinary day. The first event was a simple question posted on a blog. " Where is your next big travel trip?"

Simple enough inquiry, but the implications in the particular context was that one needs to travel to photograph; to find new destinations, grandiose scenery, interesting people, places of beauty, the obligatory sunset or sunrise on a new and more exciting horizon, captivating architecture or the progression of interesting and dramatic lives and events other than those that fill our own seemingly mundane existence. We need the imagery of the imaginary, the visual spectacle of the spectacular; we need to see and record what we don't have or pay homage to the representation of what we do have: the landscape.

The travelling photographer is armed with a vision we envy. He brings us a world out of reach to many. Like The Grand Tour we plan our lives, in part, to fulfill the dream and return with the booty of other places, neatly parcelled in a digital slide show which will be presented to friends and family on our return. "See where I have been," and we will sit in amazement at the splendor and beauty of it all.

The second event was as ordinary as the first. Over the past few weeks I have been teaching my grand-daughter to drive. On the morning of her driving test I accompanied her to the testing station. We had a calming coffee in the local shopping centre beforehand, then she left me in the car park while she went for the test.

As always I had a camera with me. My thoughts went back to the question: "Where is your next big trip?" For me, this was it! Standing alone in a strange car park in a 'foreign' land. My thoughts begun to shift from the ordinariness of the surrounding (after all, there is nothing unusual about a car park surrounded by offices and shop fronts) to the extra-ordinariness of the place in which I have found myself.

People going about their business, cars coming and going, conversations barely audible over the traffic, trade noises emanating from a shop front, machinery humming away in the background, distant sounds blending into city's white noise. I began to notice the shapes and forms occupying the space: colours blending, shadow and light interacting, textures and tones giving visual life to this inner space buried deep inside the city in which I had spent a good part of my adult life. And somehow I'd missed it.

I raised the camera to my eye and started framing and shooting. Each click of the shutter was, at that time, recording the truth, a beauty that can only be seen from where I stood, not only in locality but in time; my time.

My time to this point was filled with assumptions and stories, memories and recall, words, poetry, events, imagery of my past. I could hear my father describing a Rembrandt, my mother reading from a Bronte novel, my physics teacher describing the magnetic field of a dipole (whatever that is), my sister reciting a rhyme, Christine re-affirming her love for me. All this guided me to frame within the landscape.

The present was where I found myself, standing in a car park, waiting for my granddaughter, and the taking of photographs became a verification of who I am and what I can see. "I am here. See this picture. That's what I saw. I exist and the landscape exists at the same time" It seemed a strange place to be, as if I was a time traveller and I was recording this simple landscape to take into the future where I could once more travel back and revisit.

But unlike the painter who composes the landscape from bits and pieces, my landscape was there in all its 'glory'. My task was to select those bits that play some significance in my view of life. Not what is beautiful but what is true - for me. Beauty would follow.

While standing in the middle of the road framing one of many shots I took that morning, drifting blissfully through my own world, a gentleman approached from the curb. "What are you photographing?' he asked sincerely. " The truth" I responded, only after the shutter hand been pressed and I was happy I had captured it as I saw it. "I used to photograph rock art" he added, with some trepidation, moving back to the curb and seeking safety from the traffic and me.

Everyone has a vision of the truth. We can all find it and photograph it as we see it. When that is done, the beauty will be revealed. Finding your truth may be closer than you think.

PART SIX

We are truly never alone. Nor are we truly ever without. Wherever we are there is always a sense of presence, a proximity to something else, another human, the company of another animal, the structures that make us human and those that do not. We feel a part of and never apart from the natural world and its diversity and the unnatural world and its complexity. We breathe its air, walk its terrain, swim its oceans, climb its trees, occupy its food chain and contribute to its existence. We also add to it with structures and destruction. There is no escape. Gravity takes care of that.

When we photograph we search for that connectedness. We look into the landscape to find its beauty. We want it to be part of us as if the feelings it imposes will transform us. We hunt the flora and fauna and see ourselves in their behaviour. Their beauty is

ours to capture. Our camera scans the seas and sky for signs of life and to verify our existence. I am here. This is what I see.

But what of the space in between, the emptiness, the void that fills the gaps in this connectedness we all seek. Lord Rutherford pronounced: 'There is only two truths: atoms and space; the rest is mere conjecture.' According to modern cosmological theory, Rutherford might have been unaware of a few things but at least he was heading in the right direction.

What we photograph, in Rutherford's terms, is the atoms. They make up the 'things' we seek, the objects of our attention, the focal point and something for our auto-focus

to align to. We fill our frame with atoms and molecules. We compose based on Form, the form of solids, liquids and gaseous vapours. Edward Weston suggested Form was everything in a photograph. He, like all of us, have a great attachment to the 'solidarity' of the Universe. Even in the vastness of Space we seek the stars and planets and use them to define its existence.

As I learnt to see as a photographer I became more and more aware of the stuff between the Form, the emptiness that edged to the surfaces and textures of my subjects. This nothingness began to grow in importance as a child becomes aware of the bareness of a crib or a surfer grasps the vastness of the ocean as he stares at the horizon. I wanted to photograph this abyss, this gaping hole that pushed against the frame and squeezed the 'things' from my view.

How do I photograph nothing? Other photographers described this void as 'negative space' as if it took away from the content, as though it meant 'less than' or a subtraction, almost an annoyance that persisted, like a whining child who just won't go away. In an effort to deal with this aggravation they began to use it as a means of visually describing content. It was used to 'divert the eyes' or outline the form or fill the frame as if it was a half empty bowl and you didn't want the contents to be discarded so it was easier to fill the container with whatever was available.

Now, most of the time it worked. We never notice. We are told it was OK the do this. After all, who in their right mind would want to make 'emptiness' a subject for portrayal. Stare at nothing? Who does that? Do we look at a blank wall and wonder at its beauty? Do we stare blankly into the distance and picture its content as interesting and exciting? Would we read a blank page or drink from an empty vessel or breath the contents of a vacuum?

Then I saw it! Brice Marden's 'The Dylan Painting'. You would need to be there. It was what I would image it is like standing on the top of Mt Everest and realising you were on the edge of it all and the rest was space; empty, hollow, endless space. And you could do what you like with it.

So begun my plight. Finding the space and photographing it. It easy enough to find, or so you'd think. Its everywhere. It fills the sky, it holds the ceiling of a cathedral, it keeps me at distance from my foes and it brings me close to my loved ones. How wonderful this space is. It occupies office blocks, streets, rooms, my backyard, the glass I hold and the place behind my mirror. It creeps into every crevasse and fills it with visual splendor. It has no colour, no texture, no form, no properties of its own but it gives life to all it encompasses. We can look into it, or out of it, be in it, on it, under it, surrounded by it or surround it. And like Gravity, it spreads all the way to the edge of the Universe and then it starts all over again, only to return and fill our lives with magic once more.

Still Life - Space and Roses

Walking Space

Breathing Space

Finding Space

Office Space

Floor Space

Photographing this 'stuff' isn't easy. Its elusive as quicksilver. Just when you think you have it and you pick up your camera, its gone, only to be replaced with a dog or a rock or a family member or a Sun setting on the horizon. If you wait for it, it will never come, if you search for it, it will evade you like the meaning of Life itself. Its the place that needs filling, like a pause in a conversation. There's an awkwardness with a necessity to be 'taken care of'. 'There's a space there. Can you put something in it?' 'It really annoys me when people leave spaces!' 'How much space have I got here. I want to fill it.' 'Oh, look. A space. I'm going to put my big fat arse there. Who needs space?'

The next time you see some space, call me. I might just be able to capture it before it disappears.

PART SEVEN

My great-grand-daughter, Nevayah, (it's one of those New Age made up names designed for rock stars and super models) is one year old; just. What a delight it is to watch a child grow. They learn so fast. Movement, sounds, tastes, reaching out, finding things; milestones her mother calls them. I wonder if there is a metric equivalent. The modern mother knows all this. Nothing is left to chance. Each advance is mapped and coordinated like a Photoshop workflow. Shell start rolling over at 10 weeks and 3 days. Exactly 8 days later she will discover her toes, her mother reports. Any delay in progress is a disaster. A step ahead is celebrated as if the child has been selected for Eton or the next Moon landing. A genius is in the making I hear them say: mothers competing for ownership of the brightest and most advanced child. My child is smiling. Well, mine can hold a spoon. Can yours say abomination? Mine can. Yeah, well my boy translated the Koran into Japanese yesterday. But can he pilot a Lear jet? And the crche skirmishes continue.

What I have noticed among all this scurrying for child supremacy is that there is a distinct lack of interest in the childs development in seeing past the initial concern that the eyes are functional, they are the colour of at least one of the parents and there is no more than two. Learning to see appears to be taken for granted. Yet outside the speech centre of the brain, the visual cortex is the largest single area of the brain dealing with function other than movement and sight is responsible for 80% of sensory input and learning for a sighted person. For some strange reason we expect it all to be working perfectly from the moment the child sees the light at the end of the tunnel, so to speak. Im a curious person, so I watch and learn from my great-grand-daughter. Maybe she can teach me a thing or two about learning to see.

She stares; intently, wide-eyed, glaringly, as if everything is new: as it is. As each object, place and face comes into view she takes in what she sees and places it carefully into her memory. Objects become familiar, recognizable, and repeatable. She begins to search, looking for things she knows exist in her memory. She connects those visions with places and experiences. Relationships are formed. She learns to see in conjunction with her other senses. She learns to know where objects will be and what they mean. She learns to associate the real with the symbol. A photo on the wall, a representation of an animal in a story book, a reflection in the mirror, another human, someone she knows: herself.

The process is slow at first, blurred slightly by the physical restraints and then by the experiential limitations of a child. Her eyes dart back and forth across the vista in a never-ending search for meaning. When a connection is made she reacts. A smile, a puzzled expression, a sign of fear, a moment of hesitation, joy, anticipation, excitement. She learns that seeing is a way of finding out. She learns to enjoy the experience. Eye contact between other humans is rewarding to her. Seeing becomes rewarding.

You and I know where this is going, of course. I have grand children and children of my own who have all been along this path. They learn to see and recognize shapes and colours. They establish preferences and partialities for certain objects and people. They learn to associate words with objects and they learn to speak those words. They learn to read. They learn their language; to put ideas into words and describe what they see. At the root of all of this learning is the sense of sight. A child without sight learns all of this by an entirely different process and the other senses must fill in the gaps where lack of vision leaves the learning spaces void of stimulus.

As this learning process continues the child learns to focus. In a somewhat confusing and over-stimulating visual world, the child must learn to isolate those things which are important and ignore those things which are unimportant. We teach a child to concentrate their attention. Watch to the front, the teacher says. Keep your eyes on the traffic, warns the parent. Look at me, the sibling demands. Stop looking at that, you will hear the crier call. We learn to be selective in our vision. Thats a very important skill for us all. Its necessary for our survival.

As we grow and develop we begin a new process of selection based not on visual isolation but one of cognitive isolation where our already existing learning begins to select only those things which we find relevant at the time. This selection process is influenced by our memory, understanding, beliefs, customs and knowledge. In a sense, our vision seems to narrow. We no longer see with the eyes of a child but of an adult. Our visual input is the same but our 'vision' narrows.

This new vision can blind us. We drive without noticing where we are. We dont recognise people we know. We dont see the nose on [our] face as my mother used to say. We read and re-read the same lines in a book. Something seems to appear out of nowhere. Its been there all the time I hear Christine say. How did I not see it? Its a peculiar phenomenon that is characteristic of us all.

And what of the photograph? We give the image a passing glance. It doesn't 'interest' us so we move on. We may ponder long enough to notice something. 'Nice flower'. 'I've been there'. 'Don't go much on the dress she's wearing' We might consider the image in our own light. '$4m for that! My kid could do better'

We may have some knowledge which we can apply. 'Interesting PoV' the budding photographer observes. 'That horizon could be a little higher.' 'Nice and sharp!' Were not these peoples vision blurred by their own experiences, knowledge, biases and expectations? Did they take the opportunity, as a child might, to seek new experiences, to expand on what they already knew, to 'see' as other might, to search the frame for detail, clues, connections. The photographer presents us with a view of the world, neatly packaged within a frame. That particular view is unique. It has never been seen in quite that way and from that point in time before. The photographer sees something worth recording, worth sharing, worth expressing in his/her own particular way. This is the visual fingerprint of that particular place at that particular time by just one person. And how do we respond? 'Nice colour (it'll match my curtains)'. The adult often sees and endeavours to eliminate what they dont understand, comprehend or believe. We resist the relationships for fear of misunderstanding them. We ignore the symbolism for fear of stimulating our own feelings. A dead flower is a dead flower and not a symbol of loss or mourning. A fallen petal cannot

be a moment of sadness. A white vase doesnt show us purity of form: its just a vase. Something seemingly out of place is a mistake and needs to be corrected.

If we learn to see as the child does, we open a new world to our vision and add to our own experiences. We learn about people and places. We see the connections and relationships. We share in a world as no other generation has ever done before. Don't let the world pass you by. Stop for a while and ponder. Learn to see as others do.

PART EIGHT

I never thought this pursuit would be so challenging; this photography. After all, we all see and photography can only be one step past that. Press the button. Record what we see. Then why is it that disappointment follows so often. If frustration would be a reward for endeavour then surely I am a rich man.

Thomas Mann defined a writer as ...a person for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people. I wonder if he thought similarly about photographers. This characterisation unquestionably and clearly befits my persona. Certainly I consider myself a photographer; for better or for worse, successful or not, richer or poorer, and certainly until some demise falls upon me. Even if a lengthy span of time enables me to take advantage of a Grandfather Clause, then so be it. Yet one would expect the challenges of my chosen malinger would be more fruitful than, say, yesterday or

last week or at the birth of my first (and only) born or when my pet rabbit was committed to history as it peered into the lens of my Box Brownie. Yet with each passing day, the gap between what I achieve and what I seek widens with every click of the shutter.

It was said of Ansell Adams that, after spending many hours in his darkroom, processing the results of many days of photographing his beloved landscapes, he would occasionally burst into the daylight holding a freshly exposed and still dripping print and utter excitedly I think I have got it. How nice that must have been for him. How rewarding. How pleased with himself he would have been. And if we were to ask him (in the figurative) how often does that happen, his reply would undoubtedly be: Not often enough. He seemed content, at least comforted, with the occurrence of such manifests at least ten or twelve times a year.

I ask myself: What is it? What makes the difference between a print Adams might have left hanging in the darkroom to falter and fade under the influences of time and the vapours of the fixing tray and the one he chose to proudly display to us all. Does it have a name, a shape, a texture, a place within the frame, a colour, an identity at all? Is it tangible or ephemeral? Does it have a formula or form?

Is it the muse, the Loreli who calls us from the broken waters, the angels who ride the silken beams of light that fall from dusted skies?

Or is it the black of death, the mystery of dark corridors, the rage of a rampant thought that carries a crowd to their destiny, the wake of a father over a spent son.

Is it the blossom of a new rose, the smile of recognition from a friend, the fresh skin of a teenage girl or the glisten of muscle above an opened hearth?

It seems each photographer has their own elucidations into the subject matter of their endeavours; their own version of it.

Some lay claim to beauty (whatever that is), others explicate with such ordinariness that its difficult to understand why it is so painfully evasive. There is a suggestion of passion (assumingly on the part of the photographer), of personal expression, of love for and of the object or subject in question. Others talk of the moment as if each moment holds the magic as a conjurer contains a rabbit in a top hat.

For those of a more technical and analytical persuasion we might hear them talk of composition, balance, and Gestalt in the same way we might consider items on a shopping list. Finally, we bear witness to those who hold tenure over the latest in digital image recording. They seek reprisal from those who might find photography a more artistic venture than that of algorithms and optics.

For many, it is the recording of memorable events. We do this with such vigour that it is hard to imagine any of us escaping the ravages of dementia before the week is out. From babies to birthdays, parties to parades, holidays to homelands, visitations, ceremonies, pets, people and public events. Nothing escapes our internment of such everyday events.

And what do we do with these metaphors for our daily lives? We plaster them on Facebook or store them in dark and dusty corners of the house (or the electronic equivalent) until a disaster hits. When the fire threatens, a Force 9 gale removes the roof or a magnitude 7 earthquake shakes us from our foundations we grab the kids, the cat and the photographs and head for shelter.

Because whatever it is that is contained in those precious moments that we lovingly recorded, it is worth something to us. It is our memory, our record of the past, our ancestors, and our history. It describes, explains, expresses, pleases and pleads. For us it can be the words we do not have, the feelings we cannot express, the knowledge we accumulate, the journey we take.

What Mann wrote in his definition of a writer may well apply to us all in some form or other as we seek to express ourselves more fully. For some, the process of writing may be just too hard, so we choose to photograph instead. In this way we allow the viewer to find their own words for what we see. The photographers burden is to find the image that says: this is it for all of us.

We all continue to search for it. We all have our own version of what it is. The Holy Grail was easier to find. Jason had less trouble finding the Golden Fleece. The Meaning of Life and the origins of the Universe are less elusive. That doesnt mean we shouldnt stop looking. Whatever path we take will take us there and each will know when we have arrived. And when we do, we will speak as Adams did, shake of the excess fluid and hang the image out to dry, pick up our camera once more and continue along another path of frustration and disappointment. Why? Because thats the way we are.

PART NINE

This photography lurk is incredibly frustrating.

Ive read all the books of late (it seems), searching for a resolution to this hindrance to my artistic endeavours only to find myself in a deeper quandary. Nothing fits. My efforts dissipate like pigeons in heavy traffic. My results are a misfit of misaligned, malnourished oddities waiting for the judgment of those to whom it can to be thrust upon and those that cant be trusted to be objective: me.

Some of you who find it within themselves to feather praise on some of my photographs (mainly relatives, friends and those whose taste still allows them to wear stripes with checks) may suggest politely and encouragingly that I am being too harsh. After all, denigrating oneself is a trait all artists develop as part of their selfexamination. Appropriating praise is apposite; languishing praise on oneself is garish.

But in the face of current thinking within the photographic fraternity I find myself drowning in a sea of rules, guidelines, suggestions, recommendations, lists and liturgies on how to improve my photographs and I just dont get it!

Maybe I never have got it. My art teacher at school, Ken Reinhardt, suggested, in the light of my attempts at wielding a bush or pencil, I might consider my options and head for the woodwork classes where at least my handiwork could be used to warm myself if all else fails. Outside his critical view I found solace in the camera, more as a scientific tool for recording the miracles of nature in the working class, treeless streets of western Sydney.

There was no art intended here. Point and press, then leave the rest to fate and the corner pharmacy who would, for a few shillings, turn the views of a young boy into blurred and blackened images to be cherished, if only by me.

Then came the ambition to be like others. Magazines and news print displayed masterpieces of photographic style that took my breath away. National Geographic, Life, Vogue, Playboy (for the articles only) and the like, all created a great deal of angst and anxiety within my pubescent sole. What I would give to photograph like that (as well as dealing with some other compulsions a growing boy might have)?

So I followed the rules, or at least attempted to. Concepts like balance and contrast meant nothing to me. Curves, diagonals and point sources evaded my vision. Negative space seemed more astronomical or mathematical. The Rule of Thirds was about as much use as a Band-aid on a battle ground. And the Golden Rule was lead in my shutter finger. I saw none of this in the viewfinder of my trusty Rolleiflex. All I saw was ....... life. People, buildings, hills and gullies, flora and fauna, all interacting as they do, passing in and out of my life as they do, allowing me to see it all on the ground glass screen and occasionally record what I saw for my amusement and possible prosperity.

So, like many of the things I did not understand as a young man (Shakespeare was bewildering, Byron was baloney and women! Well, what can I say?) I cast aside the idea of ever becoming an accomplished photographer and concentrated on photographing what I saw instead of what I couldnt see.

There are those that say my photographs fit the rules anyway. Its as if I have no choice, as if I have a geometry gene attached securely to the 19th chromosome or some such place and it was inevitable that I fall into the paradigm bestowed upon all those who pursue photography with any serious intent. Their reasoning for me having taken photographs which do not fit their prerequisites for good composition is because, subliminally or subconsciously, I know the rules and choose to break them.

All this may be true, for it is not for me to know what I am thinking when taking photographs. Ill leave that to someone more astute. What I do know is that the pursuit of life as I find it is far more fulfilling than any quest for the perfect picture where all the numbers have been considered and the composition has been formulated instead of the image felt. What sits before me is not presented as compositional elements to be placed in the frame in a manner befitting a draughtsperson but a set of circumstances for me to take in and ponder, reflect and wonder. Sometimes I will choose to record what I see. I dont know why I enjoy it so much. Maybe its because I dont have any rules to follow, just feelings to express.

My physics teacher told me that light enters the eyes for us to see. Apparently, back in the old days when everything was deemed to emanate from the body, the soothsayers suggested that we see because something leaves our eyes and falls upon the objectives of our vision, illuminating it in some way. I know this not to be the case. My physics teacher was very convincing. But maybe seeing is that mystical material, that ethereal quantity, that indefinable fabric of thought that stems from looking and letting out sole project its wonder and mystery onto what is there.

Maybe there is a little bit of magic as well.

THE CONCLUSION

On any day you could find my mother, in her later years, perched on a seemingly awkward chair on the back veranda or at her bedroom window if The Weather (she would spitefully call it) was not to her liking. The atmospheric conditions could only be proclaimed as The Weather if they didnt suit her aging, arthritic bones. The rest was declared as just fine. She would place a book on her lap and a dinner-plate sized magnifying glass in one hand and scrutinize the contents, page by delicately turned page. At that stage of my life I didnt believe books warranted such inquiry and my curiosity in her persistence took me to ask: Mum, why do you read so much? There is so much to learn and see and so little time left she replied, looking at me through her already clouding cataract eyes. I cant go to these places so they come to me. I can be in Egypt this morning, New York for lunch and warming myself on a sandy beach in Queensland as the Sun sets. She would return to her books and leave me wondering about the significance of all this. By the way, whats for lunch? I would add. Significance was never an easy thing to grasp on an empty stomach.

Photography has always been like that: a way of seeing distant places without travelling. It was seen as more literal than narrative or painting. It seemed more real and closer to the truth; like being there as my mother suggested. The world began to shrink when photographers took their cameras to far off places and returned with postcards of unbelievable beauty and intrigue from destinations undreamed of by all but the wealthy and adventurous. Coffee table books with titles from Abyssinia to Zimbabwe filled the bookshelves and littered the living spaces we call home (which now seemed ordinary and dull in shadow of such splendor).

There were also endless personal photo albums of past events scattered about the rooms which would be proudly displayed at any opportunity warranting a close inspection of our meager family history. Cousins, aunts and uncles, grandparents, siblings and unknown figures whose name escaped even the most astute memory. There were stories to tell of pride and incest, events and catastrophes, births and deaths, marriages and funerals to accompany every image that lay faded and creased beneath tattered tissue and precariously held in place by gummed corners and pieces of cello tape. Hardly a day would pass without the Box Brownie being scheduled for an airing and pointed at some disgruntled relative or unsuspecting pet. This personal history is a characteristic of the photographic age. The immersion of our generations into telling stories with photographs with the advent of the fixing of that first image and development of photography to a common, everyday pastime has allowed us to share with the new, remains of the old. The story teller not only speaks but holds the past in his hands. We can see where we came from and what our ancestors looked like. We could, in a way, verify our place in a historically changing world.

We also discovered what things look like. The image through a microscope or telescope, the fields of battle or the depths of the oceans, the world from on high, inside and outside, through, under and over everything possible, was now available for all to see. From the seller to the buyer, the teacher to the student, the scientist to his critics, the artist to his admirers, the traveler in his search for the lost horizon, we all found a use for the photograph in our work, play, business and pleasure to describe what we see and to share with our audience.

We also found another use, less pragmatic, more esoteric yet liberating. We found ways of expressing ourselves, of finding more in the landscape than others could see, more than the hues of a pretty flower, more than a the blue of the sky, the red of a sunset, the green of a forest. We found ways of expressing our love, hate, fear, anger, sorrow, happiness and concern. We discovered that the photograph doesnt always tell the truth or share in beauty. We found that we could influence others, persuade them, sway their opinions, and convince them of matters otherwise. We discovered the Power in a single photograph.

In the almost 200 years we have been photographing we have learnt to see many things in many different ways. It has been an incredible journey for us all. Even if we have never taken a photograph we have still shared in this incredible adventure.

I remember seeing a documentary many years ago when a group of journalists and anthropologists ventured into the Highlands of New Guinea to find a group of indigenous people who had never had contact with people outside their own village. One of the photographers took a Polaroid image of a village member and showed

him the photograph. At first the villager was bemused. He had no idea who it was. He then became terrified when it was explained it was an image of him because he thought the photograph contained part of his soul. Slowly he realized the significance of what he held in his hand and he smiled deeply, shared the photograph with his family.

We can all be bemused by photographs other people take. For that moment we are seeing as they see. Take pleasure in that as much as seeing for yourself.

Over the past 65 years learning to see for me has been accompanied by the photograph. I have learnt to see like no other generations before. I can relish in that.